She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. By a sort of instinct. She'll have this hour always with her; and you failed her. The man looked hard at him. ” “Bring her—here,” Hill muttered.
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